


The Hardest Part

by BabyCharmander



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Coco Locos Angst Off 2018, Gen, Pre-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 07:06:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15944267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyCharmander/pseuds/BabyCharmander
Summary: The hardest part of being dead is different for everyone.Every time you think you've figured it out, something worse happens.





	The Hardest Part

Some say the hardest part of being dead is learning that you have died.

You would be inclined to disagree, because you are absolutely certain that you have not died. Your memories of last night are fuzzy, but they did not end in _death_ , no matter what the terrifying skeleton standing before you insists. It’s been ranting for the past few minutes about how you have died, and how it needs your information for the records (what records? and is it wearing a _suit?_ ), but you refuse to give in. After all, one of the few things you do remember is that chorizo, which did not at all taste right, and is surely to blame for this nightmare.

Said nightmare is strangely consistent and terrifying and the most real-feeling nightmare you have ever experienced, but it _must_ be a nightmare.

Slowly the skeleton begins to lose its patience, and the fifth time you insist to it that you have not died, it grabs your wrist and shoves your hand in front of your face.

Except it is not your hand, because it is bones. It doesn't matter that you can feel the skeleton's bones grinding against your wrist, and that instead of the feeling of something hard squeezing against flesh you feel the jarring sensation of bone against bone—it cannot possibly be your hand. Because if it was your hand, that would make you a skeleton. And if you are a skeleton, then you would be dead.

And you are not dead.

You pull away from the skeleton, growing angry. You tell it that you need to wake up from this nightmare and shake off this sickness so you can catch your train and go home and see your wife and daughter again. It's been months and months now and you can't bear another moment without them so _por favor, señor, leave me alone!_

The next thing you're aware of is a loud _clack_ , followed by a stinging sensation in your left cheek. You automatically raise your hand to it, only to feel it again: the sensation of bone against bone.

Bone. The flesh on your face is gone. It is no longer a face, but a skull.

You draw your hand away, feeling a building panic in your chest, and the skeleton insists again that you answer its questions.

You tell it, quietly, that you want to go home.

It tells you that you cannot, and demands that you answer its questions.

You tell it, louder, that you want to go home.

It tells you, more angrily, that you cannot.

This goes on, until you can no longer hear it over the screams tearing through your throat.

* * *

Some say the hardest part of being dead is coming to terms with being a skeleton.

You're going to agree with that for now, because you can barely remember the events that transpired when you first got here, and it makes you dizzy and sick to think of _why_ you're here, but your body is the one thing you cannot escape, no matter how many mirrors you avoid.

Everywhere you hear the constant clacking of your bones, the clicking of _phalanges_ against your _carpals_ , and it nearly drives you mad. You try to keep to the plazas, restaurants, markets whenever possible, but in the quiet hours when you lie down to rest (rest? why are the dead not already resting?), you always, always hear the clack, click, _grind_.

It takes you a week to be able to sleep.

Your clothing no longer fits the same and sometimes gets caught between your ribs. The feeling is unfamiliar and uncomfortable, but it's easier to deal with than adjusting your shirt and feeling the individual bones that make up your chest.

When your clothes first start to dirty, you decide to change into the new outfit that you managed to purchase. You've gotten used to seeing your hands, but the second you unbutton your shirt, you find yourself looking straight down through your body, and decide that you can stand to wear your mariachi suit for a few more weeks.

One day while you are at the market to distract yourself, you spot another skeleton eying you through a window. You turn to eye him back, and he turns to look at you. His face is gaunt, his skull unwashed, his hair disheveled, his eyes somehow looking exhausted in spite of the lack of bags beneath them. Overall he looks terrible, and you can't imagine why he would stare at you so.

It is several moments before you realize you are seeing your own reflection for the first time.

* * *

Some say the hardest part of being dead is the memory of your own death.

You had forgotten about it until it hits you in the form of a nightmare, agony twisting through your stomach, overtaking your awareness, consuming your world except for the desperate, wild thought to get to the train, get to the train, _get to the train_. Barely you feel the shock of your kneecaps hitting cobblestone before you wake up.

You are gasping in panic, lightheaded, as the memories come rushing back. The fight, how could you forget the fight? Why had you fought with your best friend so? Why had that been the last thing to happen?

But, no, it wasn't. You remember the toast, fortifying your friendship before your departure. There was the meal, the meal that made you so sick, and you curse your terrible appetite for causing _this_ to happen. And then the walk to the train station, and...

And you can't forget the feeling, that horrific feeling of pain that still feels so real, even now, enough that you clutch at your stomach tighter and tighter, wishing the pain to stop, wishing for your stomach to ease.

Your hands touch your spine, and the shock and wrongness of it snaps you out of the memory. No longer do you have a stomach that can be sick.

But you'd gladly trade that to have the rest of your life back.

* * *

Some say the hardest part of being dead is being separated from your living friends and family.

You almost want to disagree, simply because you wish it were not true. The thought of it hurts worse than the agony in your stomach, the thought of your friend, your wife, your daughter, all left behind on the other side of the veil.

Sometimes you pass musicians in the plazas. You join them every so often, and the music fills you with so much energy and joy that for a moment, you forget you are dead. But when you turn to grin at your best friend after a successful performance, you instead find yourself face-to-face with a skeletal stranger, and reality crashes back over you. After a few more instances of this, you decide to busk alone.

You have a notebook that you pen new lyrics into, and occasionally find yourself asking aloud what your companion thinks of the rhyme. He does not answer, and you remember that he is gone. But you ask the questions anyway, as you sit alone on walls and bridges, hoping to one day hear his reply.

The memories of your wife are even harder to bear. Sometimes when you sing alone, you close your eyes and imagine her voice joining yours, and find yourself reaching out, to hold her, to dance with her, to be near her. But your hand grasps at nothing, and you stop mid-song as your imagined throat tightens.

Nights are difficult. Once you manage to sleep, you often dream of her, the smell of her perfume, the softness of her hair, the warmth of her body. But you awake alone, and sleep forsakes you for the rest of the night.

At one point you pass a zapateria, and your body seizes up when you glance at the shoemakers through the window. You don't even know why you remember it, but it comes back to you, that day when you were dancing around the kitchen and your shoes were squeaking, and she mentioned that she would like to do that one day, to mend old shoes and make new ones. She never mentioned it again, but you remember. It didn't matter then, but now it feels of utmost importance, just like every other incidental memory of her.

And of your daughter.

Sometimes you hear a high-pitched giggle, and you think of _her_ . A little girl in the plaza dances with her uncle, and you think of _her_. One young niña approaches you to ask you to play La Llorona like her mother used to, and you hesitantly oblige, your voice wavering as you play and sing. For once you are glad of your skeletal body, for this pobrecita cannot see any tears on your face.

But as much as it hurts, you never, never neglect to sing your Song (yours, but more importantly, _hers_ ) every night, knowing that somewhere, far off on the other side of the veil, she is singing it with you.

* * *

Some say the hardest part of being dead is only being able to see your family once a year.

You don't know if this is true or not, nor will you ever, for when that fateful day, the _Day of the Dead_ , comes around, you are left behind.

It does not seem that way at the start. You have been counting down the days, feeling like you will burst from excitement, or be crushed from the loneliness you've been forced to bear. When the sun begins its descent, you race through the crowd, hoping to be the first in line.

You are not the first, but it only takes half an hour for you to reach the gates to your hometown. The attendants take your name down in a large book, and let you pass, though a pair of guards follows you. You've watched the procedure dozens of times now as you got closer and closer to the gate: the guards will flank you until you reach the bridge, and step away when you begin to cross. You're not sure the reason for this, but it's the last thing on your mind right now.

Every part of you wants to charge forward, but the guards insist that you walk. You obey this command with the plan to run the second they turn their backs. Except you never get the chance.

You step onto the petals, and your foot sinks through. The guards tell you to turn back, and you look back at them incredulously. Surely they're not serious? You’ve been waiting all year for this!

You take another step forward, your other foot sinking into the petals, and the guards follow you. Their feet do not sink through, and their hands pull you back.

A small part of you is ashamed of the way you begin to scream and swear and fight, but the rest of you is consumed by fury—how dare they take you away? You've done nothing wrong!

But with enough shouting, they get through to you that your tribute has not been put on an ofrenda yet. It is early in the night, so you must wait.

_Now_ the shame comes full force, and you stand meekly off to the side as others are allowed to cross. Every half hour you're given another chance, and every time, the petals refuse to bear your weight. As the night wears on and you watch skeleton after skeleton cross the bridge, a sickening, bitter envy fills the void in your chest. Why do these people get so much more time to spend with their families while you're forced to stand here and _wait_?

After what feels like days, the guards approach you sadly, saying that the gates are now closing.

But that can't be—you haven't gotten to see your family yet! Your friend! Your wife! Your _daughter!_ Your daughter's an entire year older now, and you can't go another year without seeing her!

They try to reassure you that there is always next year, but you can't wait that long. Without a second look you charge at the bridge, only for the guards to grab you. They are not gentle this time, and instead of merely pulling you back, they drag you far away from the bridge, the gates, the stares of onlookers, and to a lonely cell where you spend the morning lashing out at the bars that hold you, and the rest of the day weeping.

The next year, there is no excitement. Only the terrible weight of dread and loneliness crushing your back.

But a flame of determination has lit in your chest, giving you the strength to keep trying.

* * *

Some say the hardest part of being dead is waiting for your friends and family to join you.

You know this with certainty. Your years are not completely lonely as you try to fill the void with friends and acquaintances (the band you joined, the colorful people in the arts district, the seamstress whose name reminds you of home), but none of them can truly replace the ones you left behind. Your yearning for your family never lessens as the years wear on.

No longer do you track these years via your own age (forever locked at twenty one years, cursed to never bear wrinkles or gray hairs or bones creaking with age), but by the ages of the ones you wait for. You think of your friend, and wonder how far he's traveled. You think of your wife, wondering how much more beautiful she will grow with age. You think of your daughter, how tall she must be at ten, how beautiful she must be at sixteen, if she has found a husband yet at twenty.

So often you find yourself missing them, and trying to remember them when you can. You draw them once in a while, and write memories of them so you don't lose them as the years pass. Some days you wish they could be here with you, and you immediately push those thoughts away with feelings of shame and anger. How dare you wish for their lives to be cut short as yours was?

You have no way of knowing when they will be here, and, unlike most of your colleagues, no way of knowing how they are even doing.

Until you hear your best friend's name spoken alongside one of your songs. It shocks you, at first, then warms you. Of course, he’s playing your songs in your memory. It feels strange to see them so well known and beloved now, but you can't help but feel happy for your friend. At least one of you got what you wanted.

And then you hear the Song.

Except it's not the Song. It has been mangled and butchered and warped into something different and terrible, and it leaves you feeling hurt and violated like never before. He'd never heard that Song. It had always been _hers_ and yours alone. How could he know it? Why would he do this?

Asking others about the songs only raises more questions, and suddenly you find yourself wanting to see your friend again for an entirely new reason.

He is the first to die, but you are not the first to seek him out. For months you try to approach him, but he is always flocked by fans and media and, soon, security guards. Tired and confused and hurting in ways you've never known before, you tell these guards that you just want to talk to your friend again.

They stare at you long enough to make you feel uncomfortable before telling you to make an appointment. You try to insist that you must see him now, but they insist, with no small amount of anger, that you will not see him without an appointment.

Having dealt with a great deal of people who have been very insistent about you following directions, you know when to give in. The appointment is scheduled for an agonizing year and a half later (he is a busy man, they say), but there's little else you can do.

You spend much of your time wondering why he has not sought you out as you have him.

When the appointed time finally comes, you return (to a tower, a new structure built entirely for a friend who is feeling more and more like a stranger every day), and ask to see your friend. You made your appointment, waited your time, and now, por favor, you only want to talk to him.

The security checks over their lists, and bluntly informs you that they have no record of this appointment.

Reeling, you produce your wrinkled, faded copy showing the scheduled time. One guard takes the paper, and crumples it. The other asks you to leave before you are forced to do so.

But desperation and confusion and hurt come to a head in the form of an unwise decision. You run past the guards, screaming your friend's name. But the guards keep their word. They forcibly remove you from the tower, taking a rib as payment.

It's probably what you deserve for abandoning him.

The disaster leaves you more than a little worried about your wife. If your friend was hurt by you so, how much more will your wife be? Part of you wonders why she has not made efforts to remember you, but those thoughts lead in terrible directions that often end in drinking yourself sick, so you try to imagine better scenarios. Perhaps she does not feel abandoned as your friend did, but is not able to put up a proper ofrenda for one reason or another. You're not entirely sure what those reasons are and don't want to think about what they might be, but it's a more pleasant thought than the idea that she does not want to see you, so you hold onto it.

When the day finally arrives (many lonely decades later, in which you comfort yourself with the thought that she has lived a long life), you seek her out. There are no crowds, no reporters, no guards this time.

But there is still pain.

Pain that runs deeper than the constant ache of your missing rib, than the breaks you've suffered over the years, than the very sudden strike of a well-made boot-heel to your skull.

Her words, sharp with years of anger and hurt, tear through you, full of accusations of abandonment, of lack of care, of disloyalty.

It's not true, it's not true, you try to tell her, but her anger is strong and your will is worn and beaten and weak, and you cannot stand against her.

You thought you had known the extent of how great a void your family had left when you died, but now that you have tried and failed to see them again, you realize that it is far greater than you could have ever imagined.

The thought of your daughter, the one hope you have left, keeps you from being consumed.

* * *

Some say the hardest part of being dead is when you must ultimately go to the shanties.

At first, you agree. You don't realize that your bones are changing color until you notice that your presence attracts stares, sometimes of pity, sometimes of disgust. Those you thought were once friends turn their backs on you, and it is growing harder and harder to find work. You fight it for as long as you can, until you can no longer deny that you are being Forgotten.

With a heavy heart and a deep sense of shame, you drag your yellowed, creaking bones down the ancient steps to the homes of the Nearly Forgotten. Many of them are cheerful and welcoming, and immediately try to adopt you into their makeshift family.

Initially, it's not something you want to be a part of. You don't want this; you only want a place to stay. You are not a cousin or a tio. You are a husband and a father and a best friend, but two of those titles have been stripped from you. This feels like a cheap attempt at patching the void the previous titles have left behind.

But as the months go by, you come to realize the sincerity in the love of these people. These are not fake, cheap titles they give you, but ones born of a true desire for you to be part of their family.

It has been so long since anyone has actually wanted you, that finally you accept the title of _cousin_. It does not fill the void left by the family that has cut you off, but it is better than despair.

* * *

Some say the hardest part of being dead is when you see the Final Death for the first time.

You don't know this until the day you realize that your adopted family was too good to be true.

One day you go to visit a prima, only to find her gone. They tell you that she has passed on, and you're left not knowing how to feel. You had heard tales of this, of a death after the first one, one everyone must experience, but they never felt real, and still do not.

It's not until you see it for yourself that it becomes real to you.

You're sitting with your family, talking and drinking and laughing, when it happens: a tio that had been quiet that night suddenly begins to shake, his yellowed bones flashing gold. Immediately everyone flocks to him, and you look on in terror as the spasms come back, and the tio says his weary goodbyes before fading into golden dust.

It shakes you to your core, the realization that any of your newfound family could simply fade away.

And they do.

It never gets easier to watch, and you force yourself to stop after the fifth time. Part of you can hardly bear it, wanting to leave the shanties and its constant death, but the only other option is the streets, and no one wants you there anymore.

So here you remain, smiling through the heartache. For what else can you do?

* * *

Some say the hardest part of being dead is waiting for your own Final Death.

You know this is true. You can feel it in the creaking and aches of your joints and breaks, in the weakness of a body that can barely hold itself together, in the growing yellowness of your bones. Your memory is hanging by a thread, and somehow you know your daughter is the only one left who knows who you are.

With this knowledge comes terror, and with terror, desperation. Less of your time is spent with your newfound family, and more is spent trying to come up with increasingly elaborate schemes to cross the bridge come the Day of the Dead. Every plan that fails only increases your determination until many begin to wonder if you are mad.

Perhaps you are.

You break more bones in your attempts to cross, anger more people than you dare to count, and lose the respect of nearly everyone outside the shanties, but none of that stops you.

For beneath your determination and desperation is that terrible, growing feeling of despair, that knowledge that if you cannot cross the bridge, you will never see your daughter again.

And for that, you must keep trying.

* * *

Some have a lot of different ideas about the hardest part of being dead. But after nearly a century of being unable to cross the bridge; being turned away from your best friend, hated by your wife, barely remembered by your daughter; and watching the only family you have left fade away, you can now say for certain:

The hardest part of being dead is that no matter what you do, you will always, always end up alone.

**Author's Note:**

> For the angst-off competition. My prompt was "the only family I have left."


End file.
